Fearlessness
by OrangeGoggles
Summary: Tenth Walker - A captain of the southern lands journeys to Rivendell to alert the west of what marches upon them, only to be caught in the tangled web of fate as a member of the Fellowship. Will she survive the call of the Ring, when so many others have failed before her? And the elf prince, a creature made of dreams, could change her life forever. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Prologue

This is the first fic I have written in a long long while, so any and all constructive criticism is welcome.

Onome is pronounced AH-nuh-may  
Koronande is pronounced Ko-ro-NON-day

Bless you for reading!

* * *

**Prologue**

Onome Idrissa, daughter of Okimbu and a captain of the naval fleet of Koronande, had a strange dream that frightened her for two reasons. One, there was rarely a time when dreams struck her mind so vividly, as if life went on in sleep as it did in waking. Two, the confusion of the dream and the mysteries that inhabited it. But Onome kept her dreams in secret, as she did with much else.

In her dream she stood knee deep in the shallow part of the sea, looking outward to the calming waves. The area was familiar to her, as her family made frequent trips to that beach during the dry season. It was only half a day's journey from their home, quickly becoming a second home to them, where the fish and crabs were plentiful, the harboring villages quaint and welcoming, and minuscule creatures in the water glowing blue during the nights of the midyear celebration.

Yet midyear passed months ago, and the greying clouds above her rolled in with fervor.

Thunder boomed. The winds crafted a new pace for the waves and they grew to unspeakable heights. Onome was swallowed up by the sea, but she was unafraid.

She did not drown. She did not swim. Instead, she stayed suspended in the water as she would stand on stone. And she breathed in saltwater like fresh air. Schools of fish and creatures much more menacing passed her by, swimming fast. Behind them, coils of black lashed out, dark as octopus ink, blocking out the suns rays as they spread.

It was then that Onome realized she was dreaming.

Then, in the darkness of the deep, a dim light ebbed in the west, like embers of a dying fire. She walked towards the faded light, somehow reassured of its presence and growing warmth as she drew closer. But no matter how far she went or how fast she ran, the light stayed fixed on that singular point on the horizon, forever out of reach. In the blink of an eye the scene changed. Darkness gave way to lush forests, rich browns and vibrant greens of the earth surrounding her. The trees were similar to those further inland and in the greenwood of Rhun but still very much their own.

Onome knelt to the ground, gasping, lungs burning for the sea.

Hands brought her to her feet as she choked on the air. Strong arms supported her weakening frame and a voice pure as starlight whispered into her hair. The language was unknown, foreign, but each word soothed her heart as a mother's lullaby calmed a child's fears, and she breathed once more. But her arms, neck, cheeks were gaping with holes like coral and the sea and the life poured out of her veins. Onome turned. She stood face to face with a man, tall as a tree still in its youth and built as such, with skin white as parchment and hair like pale gold framing his face. His garb was rich in the hues of the woods that surrounded them.

She saw that his feet changed to rough bark, the roots setting deep into the forest floor. Upon his head a crown of leaves grew. His arms and fingers cracked and bent like tree limbs as the growing branches of his body trapped her.

Onome looked upon him, not in fear, but with a quivering anticipation and wonder; the man was so close, their bodies like lovers embracing. His body became one with the forest and his eyes, blue as the clearest sky, said what his language could not convey.

When she awoke, she clawed at her arms, still feeling the coral-like holes in her skin, and sent racking shivers down her spine. She would not find sleep for the rest of the night. And the dream...which was more nightmare than dream, she supposed. A strange man and strange surroundings. What would lead her mind to think of such things, things that sprung forth from folklore and children's bedside stories? Men transforming into trees?

Through her window she spied the moon over the painted walls of the city. Salty breeze wafted into her chambers, the sea beckoning her to return. The dream sat in her stomach like a stone, weighing her down. Perhaps a visit to the temple would suit her well and, at best, give her some peace of mind.

She had no talent in the kitchens and could not bake sweet cakes for offering. No animals were in her possession, and spilling the blood of perfectly good livestock seemed a waste. To go into the vineyards and pick grapes to crush into wine danced at the edge of her mind, but she could not stand to wait for the fermentation. In truth, Onome held little skill outside of seafaring and battle. The only option she was willing and able to take was to visit Mai Gani, who resided in the temple's innermost room. Mai Gani, along with the lower mystics, was Koronande's direct line to the spirits of the earth, wind, and sky, the sea, and the afterlife. For a certain price, they would reveal the answers to a patron's request. Her own uncle channeled the voices of the spirits while he lived. If only that gift were passed down to her, dream nonsense would be nothing but that. Nonsense. But speaking to spirits had a price of its own.

Onome threw a robe over her nightclothes and descended into the kitchens on the lower floor. The cooks and kitchen hands and scullery maids were still in their quarters, as preparation for tomorrow's morning meal had not begun. She took a cup from the shelves and poured herself a hefty amount of spiced wine. She drank deeply, and refilled her cup before returned to her own chambers. There would come a time to speak of her dream, but it was not that night. Perhaps not ever.

The moon waxed and waned, a month turned into many, and Onome pushed and shoved and beat the memory of that night into the darkest corner of her mind until the images faded away from all knowing. The western light, extinguished. The darkness, gone. The man who was one with the forest...all but the intensity of his eyes were washed away by the prospect of new missions. And soon, even that chilling blue disappeared from every waking thought.

* * *

Yeah, but you can't run from fate forever.

-OG


	2. Messengers

What even is this? Onome is kiiiiind of a jerk.

Slow start, fellas. Kid of.

Happy reading!

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Messengers**

The two ships under her command took a huge hit in the storm before their return to the harbor. It was a simple voyage meant for supplying Igbo Island and it's inhabitants with bags of grain, various dried fruits and meat, and plenty of linens for wear and mending. The storm season was upon the coast and neighboring islands, and the people of the Kirani Republic offered help to those they could. They were as just as they were fierce and always repaid favors in kind. Luckily for the Igbo islanders, they were one of many to aid Koronande in the last war, and would be rewarded for years to come.

She carefully inspected the starboard side of her ship. The wood cracked and splintered where the other ship had crashed into it. Winds blew so fierce that the sails started to tear with each gust. The jib and topsails were all but useless. Onome chewed on her bottom lip. Thanks be to Irmna, everyone aboard both vessels survived the journey. Her beloved ships, her pride and joy, however, would need immediate repair before her crew were called on their next voyage.

"Zufyan," she shouted to her comrade above. "I leave to speak to the _Shugaisi_."

A man aboard popped his head over the edge and looked down at her, . Zufyan's light brown curls were tied back to reveal high cheekbones and a heavy brow. Even from where she stood the beginnings of his beard were visible on his tanned cheeks and chin. He slung a coil of rope over his shoulder and waved his hand the air. "Why not come and share a drink with me and the others instead? Most of the others have already made it to the tavern. We've just returned home! Sit back and relax for a moment! It's well deserved. We almost died. Or were you not paying attention?"

"I _was_ paying attention! Do not forget who grabbed your lifeline when it snapped from the weight." Her hands, freshly bandaged, were still raw from attempting to hoist him back up. He was lucky that Dajani was close by to pick up her slack.

"I am not that heavy," he grumbled. "The rope was frayed, that is all."

Onome chuckled. Her friend was much too sensitive. "Anyways, the ships need repair. I shall ask him for the coin to do so." She let her hand trail across the ship's side before dropping her hand and walking away.

"He will oblige, captain," Zufyan called lazily. "He always says yes to you."

The young captain smiled slyly over her shoulder. "Not always!"

There was no denying it; the marketplace in the garden square was truly the life of the blue city. Whatever could be grown, crafted, hunted-it was sold there. Tented tables in varying size offered fresh fish caught every morning, lengths of intricately woven cloth and silks of every color and design imaginable, perfumes and incense whose musk mingled with the salty air. Fruits and vegetables, grown or traded. Beans and grains. Blacksmiths and jewelers with metalwork that would rival that which was worn and brandished by the members of the oligarchy.

The sights and sounds of the bustling crowds was music to Onome's ears. She was only gone for a little over two weeks but the scene before her gave her a sense of relief. It was a constant in the madness of her life, never-changing even when the world would stop turning.

One particular tent resided in the center ring of the marketplace, striped with puce and orange, attracting every eye to its presence. _Obnoxious colors_, she thought. But the goal was attention, and the tent served its purpose. The young captain maneuvered her way through the clusters of citizens who bartered prices with the merchants to the center of the square. As she neared the puce-and-orange tent, a small child whipped past her, squealing wildly as he went. Close behind was another boy, much older and his face red with anger. "Get back here!" he cried. He lost his footing and slammed into Onome with full force, almost pulling her down. But he was off, without as little as an apology.

She reached out and grabbed the boy by his dirty collar. "Oh no, no, no," she chastised, almost laughing. "That was a nice try, but you won't be stealing from me today." The boy, face smeared with dirt and a permanent scowl, attempted to pull away, even kicked her shins and clawed her hand to escape. "Hand it over, boy."

"I don't have anything!"

"Do you know the punishment for theft? Would you like me to remind you?" She pulled her dagger out of the sheath that was belted to her hip. The blade glinted almost menacingly. His large brown eyes began to water with tears.

"I will not tell you again."

The boy frantically reached inside his oversized vest and produced the small coin pouch he had taken from her pocket. Onome placed the dagger back in its home and took the pouch in her hand. The runt was skilled. She almost didn't notice his thievery. "Thank you," she said, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. She released him and coldly watched as he disappeared into the crowd.

"Y'know," a voice, smoky and ancient, said. "You would do well to be a little more forgiving."

Onome recognized the voice instantly. "I would make a terrible mother, Yevenn. I hate children." She nodded in greeting toward the elderly woman sitting in the protective shade of he puce-and-orange tent. Surrounding her were baskets of corked bottles and vials of different size, each filled with colorful liquid that sparkled even when not in the sunlight. And the woman herself, though time etched lines of wisdom and wear on her sunset sand skin, her beauty was evident still, ebony hair streaked bone white pleated and set upon her head in a round mass, her neck and hands long and graceful. Traits of womanhood remaining even after all those long years of life.

"So I see you survived the storm." Yevenn patted the cushion beside her.

Onome raised a hand in refusal. She had little time to talk. "I suppose you were the one who conjured it."

The old woman barked in laughter. "Ungrateful child."

"You do sell potions for a living," Onome replied.

"Indeed," Yevenn hissed with a smile, her teeth grey as the sky. "There was a rider who came into town the day before yesterday. He had news for the _Shugaisi_."

Onome furrowed her brow. "A rider?"

Yevenn nodded. "Clad in the cloth of one of the northern tribes, but much more foul."

That did not bode well. "Well, what did this rider want?" Onome asked impatiently. "Did his arrival cause any alarm in the townsfolk? What was his purpose?"

"How should I know? I'm just a witch who conjures sea storms."

_Unbelievable_. "You can forget the payment. Your information is worthless today." The captain sped off in pursuit of the _Shugaisi_'s hall. If the rider had anything to say, she wanted to know before anyone else. And who knew how many had already been told? Hopefully her leader would speak of all that he knew, though Onome would have learned more from the damned witch if she was not so concerned with playing mysterious.

* * *

The oligarch's house stood upon a small hill overlooking the people below, its stark white walls contrasting with the bright blue of the city. Onome made easy access. The guards at the door saluted her in unison. She ignored them, as they did what they were meant to do when someone of her status crosses their path. Inside, the main room was painted gold and red. Dark wood furniture imported from Tir were set strategically in different areas. Great canvas paintings depicting the current Shugaisi and his family, along with important events in their country's history, hung on every wall. One painting caught her attention, as it always did when he entered into that room. The Shugaisi's daughter, almost sickly as she was so thin. His daughter, young and unhappy, was brilliantly dressed in plumes of peacock feathers and violet silk, her dark hair twisted and braided into a flower crown upon her head. _Shame_.

Onome stomped off to the second floor.

"_Shugaisi._" Onome stood in the doorway of the library, the innermost room where laws were made, pacts were signed, where the city's leader languished on a bench fluffed with finely embroidered cushions. The library was an almost sacred place, where none but those invited could enter in. She always felt secure in the vast room filled with cushions and dust and history, like her ancestors from the very books were standing guard. He held an open book in one hand and a half-eaten mango in the other. He was a tall man, taller than most; his arms and legs were almost too long for his body. The beard on his face was cut short, peppered with white. The cloth he wore was rich with red and gold, much like the painted rooms, and the boots on his feet made of the finest materials. He addressed her without tearing his eyes away from the book.

"What did I tell you, hm? I think we are beyond you calling me that."

Onome ignored him. "Why do you still keep that wretched painting of me in the main room? It's horrid. I can't stand to look at it every time I stroll in." Shame pooled in the pit of her stomach.

He folded a corner of the page he was on to hold his place and set the book on the bench. The mango was put on a dish on his desk. His mouth moved slowly, chewing the words inside carefully. "You were a beautiful bride, my daughter. Surely you can indulge a father in a few good memories." Good memories? The memory of that night burned a hole in her brain.

"I'd rather not. Besides, the fool found himself a new child-bride to throw into his bed each night-"

"You were fifteen, a ripe age for marriage." Fifteen. And that union only lasted a year.

"And now I am here, hardly leaving your side. Everyone wins." She smiled, patting him on the shoulder. Her father sighed. Standing, he gestured her to follow. "I am glad that you have returned safely. Your first mate beat you here, gave me the full report. But now I have important business to go over with you. Close the door, if you would-gratitude. And the windows as well." The _Shugaisi_ Okimbu Idrissa sat at the desk in the center of the room, his weathered eyes growing dark as shadow. His deep voice dropped to a low whispered tone. "I have dismissed all but the front guards today. You are the only one I trust."

Koronande was a country rid of war and secrecy for six years. Treaties were made, pacts mended, loyalties freshly set in stone. They rid themselves of any and all traitors, placed their severed heads on spikes as a warning to those who dared oppose their forces. She scoffed to keep herself from laughing. "Oh , please. I have just returned home. I would rather speak of the two ships that took damage in the storm. They can still be repaired in time for our next voyage if we act quickly." A slight lie. If her father was concerned with trust and secrecy, it would have been best if she did not now of the rider from two days past.

Okimbu ignored her and pulled out a drawer from the desk and picked up a large unmarked tome and cracked it open. Onome was surprised to find that the insides of the pages were cut out to form a secret compartment between the hard leather-bound covers. Placed inside was a scroll of parchment rolled tightly, sealed with the wax crest of the Kirani Republic.

"What is this?" she asked, perplexed.

"A messenger from the north came to me. He spoke of things, terrible things, that are soon to transpire."

Onome slammed her fists on the desk. When Yevenn told her of the rider, she assumed it was ill news. "A rebellion! _Shugaisi_, please allow me the pleasure of weeding out the traitors-"

"There are no traitors. Just disagreement on whether or not our people should go to war. We won the last war by the skin of our teeth, and we are still picking up the pieces here and there." No one in Koronande needed reminding of what occurred during those years. The famine, the possibility of death looming over every being that still drew breath. Peace was hard-earned, and Koronande stole their peace back from those who ravaged their lives.

"Which neighboring countries abandoned the truce?" If she knew the names of who opposed them infiltrating their domains would be an easy task, slitting throats was quick work. She would go alone and protect her countrymen in the silence of the night.

"None abandoned the truce, Onome. They are led by a higher power. A power whose name I dare not speak. There has been talk of the bordering countries gathering their forces. And," he paused, looking her square in the eye. "And there are forces gathering inside our own walls already. The messenger visited the others in my council as well, to tell our soldiers and fleet to prepare for war. They are forming a legion, and not just of men. Orcs, as well as giants and trolls. Behemoths of the desert lands." Each word he said was painful as poison in the blood. Fell beings of the dark recesses of the world seldom crawled out of their holes to band together. But what could be so threatening to need such a force?

"What reason is there for war, _Shugaisi_?"

"It is the men of the west who provoke their wrath," her father finally said, staring solemnly at her. "And it is the men of the west whom we must warn. For if we do nothing, this war will engulf the world. It is your final task, Onome." Words of terror. He was either sending her to her death, or he did not believe he would live to see her return. Or both.

The west.

A light shone in the west...like embers of a dying fire...

Fear ate away at her insides. Looking down at her bandaged hands, she was struck with that terrible memory.

"_Shugaisi_," Onome began. After many moons, she remembered and the fear of realization seeped into her heart. "I...I must tell you of a dream I had months passed. I knew nothing of its importance until now." The images of that ill-fated dream flooded her memories. And the eyes of the man who was one with the forest haunted her once again. The young captain told him every detail she knew, from the towering waves that swallowed her up, to the encroaching darkness that spread trough the sea. And the light, which signaled frail hope, and only became more fragile in waking. The part that the pale man played, she gladly left out. She didn't feel it was necessary or beneficial for anyone else to know.

Okimbu listened intently, never blinking or looking away, his brow knit together, deep in thought. "Have you prayed at the temple?"

"No."

"Why did you not come to me sooner?"

"Because it was just a dream. Now I know otherwise."

"Then, you know, this was fated to fall upon you. And only you."

She froze. "Yes. I know."

He handed her the scroll. She took it with shaking hands and placed it inside the folds of her tunic. So she was to become the messenger now, and bear the news of war to another. _This is my duty. Duty comes before all else._

"Find their kingdom, a high council, someone who will listen. Deliver the scroll and aid them in whatever way you can. Do not fail me, and return home when the task is complete."

Onome swallowed, tasting bile. She nodded, yet knew that she could fail this task so easily. She had never set foot in the western lands before. In her earlier journeys Onome encountered many who hailed from the kingdoms of old, where they were driven out of their homes or left no choice but to become vagabonds and smugglers in another world. Where they gave women no choice at all. How different they were! With their skin white as milk, hair like corn silk that flowed in the wind. And more submissive than most, the lot of them. Foreign.

And her father, her friends and crew mates...she might not ever see him again. He stood, towering over her, and clapped her shaking body to his chest. She clung to his shoulders, buried her face in the warmth of his tunic, fighting back the tears. She breathed deeply through her nose, as if to preserve the very memory of him in her mind.

"Return to me, my child, and find me again. I am sure I will need you at my side before long."

She release him from her grip and stepped back. His eyes were dryer than bone. He was never one for emotional goodbyes. She saluted her leader. "I would die at your command, _Shugaisi_." Spinning on her heel, she left the room, shoulders square and feet steady as they went along the floor and over the stairs and down the path that led back to the city. Her eyes were clouded as she viewed the horizon. It was nearly evening. The blue city would have reflected the color of the sky on a clear day. She needed to await nightfall to set off. And, heaven help her, smuggle a ship to reach the next port of trade that connected merchants to Umbar.

This was yet another mission that she needed to complete. She told herself that and repeated it until it stuck in her mind.

The wind was calm. A good sign. Hopefully it would last until her next destination.

* * *

The next chapter will pick up the pace. Reviews are nice!

-OG


	3. Mutanyi

Hmmm, so this one is a bit slow. I know I said that it wouldn't be but stay with me, folks! It will be worth it.

TheParanoidGraveRobber, Terinka14, Uroboros85, alexma, and Aureliaithil- Thank you so much for your reviews! I hope I do not disappoint you!

Onward!

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**Chapter Two**

**Mutanyi**

Pelargir.

A dismal place, due to the deluge that showed no sign of stopping. She expected more from the greatest port in all the west. The stories she heard back home were grandiose at best. This was the center of all trade in Gondor! It was the weather that put out her spirits. Rain hammered upon the harbor and the streets were slick with mud. Onome shivered with the thought of being stationed in a place like that. If she were in Koronande the night would not have been nearly as dreary. For even if it rained an ungodly storm upon her, she would have been home.

Winds tore through her clothing and she felt her whole body exposed to the weather. Nothing the captain had not endured before. The King's Inn, a tavern just down the road from where her ship made berth, its windows bright with candles and faint music playing from within, caught her attention, but she had queries before entering. With no other option, she would at least have a hot meal and a warm bed for the night. But The King's Inn was anything but kingly. It was nothing more than a crowded shack; many men and women occupying the benches and stools, eating and drinking merrily, their words slurred by much intake of ale. The stench of the place was undeniable, a mixture of grease and vomit and sweat, mingled with other foul odors. Music—a single old man playing the fiddle—went in and out of the noise that was the patrons' laughter and drunken hollers. Ale sloshed onto the floor from shaking pints as a group of drinkers near the front sang a love ballad out of tune.

The tavern's warmth spread over her and she was glad for a break from the storm outside. Passing unnoticed was something that came easy to her, but in a place like Pelargir, with all of its vastness, melting into the crowd would prove otherwise. She caught a glimpse of the portly, balding innkeeper staring her down, cleaning a spotty mug with an even dirtier rag behind the bar. His apron was riddled with grease stains and he seemed to be the only sober person in the establishment aside from the stranger sitting across from her and herself.

Onome was a sight to behold. Dark complexion made darker by the lack of light at the corner table where she sat. A glaive, her weapon of choice, rested against the wall to her right, the blade gleaming from the distant candlelight. She kept a stern expression as she examined the person opposite of her.

"How did you know that I would be here?" Onome pulled a piece of bread apart from the loaf that was served to her. She chewed on it, grimacing. Stale. The innkeeper was a crook. In Pelargir, she could not help but notice the people that inhabited the port, all fair and full of themselves. And she noticed, even more so, the way they glared at her, whispered curses as they turned away. _They hate me. They hate my skin and all it represents to them_. She took a drink to wash the taste of the bread down, and the mead barely quenched her thirst. "Did you foresee my arrival in your smoke rings? _Mutanyi_."

The weathered man sitting across from her shrugged, his wrinkled hands folded together on the table. The pipe of his sat idle on the small metal plate, where the ashes piled up from previous smokers. A gold ring with a single cut ruby encircled his finger. His eyes twinkled; a hint of a smile was visible underneath the tangled, grey mass of beard. That was how he approached her, during an altercation with the innkeeper. When she pulled the hood from her head the innkeeper nearly swung at her. _Harad filth_, he called her, whatever a Harad was. Some other attendees looked on eagerly, a glassy look of bloodlust in their eyes. But this strange fellow, as tall as he was old, clapped her on the shoulders and intimidated the innkeeper with a nod and a smirk. The imbecile refrained from his attack. When her savior invited her to join him, she did so, only if he agreed to pay for her meal. If he was willing to help a perfect stranger, she might as well milk him for all he was worth.

He was a _mutanyi_, a wizard, after all. She knew it to be true. She felt it in her bones.

"I have informants, as many others do," he said. He did not question what she called him. The man did not even bat an eye. "One must keep a close eye on the Haradrim. They are cunning folk."

Onome raised an eyebrow. Informants. There must have been a rat on the ship she boarded from the last port of trade. There was nothing she could do about it. She needed to be careful with her words from now on, and even more so her actions. "What...is Haradrim? What is a Harad?"

"People of the south, people who are greatly hated and feared."

Why group multiple nations together under one word? Hundreds of languages and dialects should have been enough to differentiate. She knew, however, why the west hated and feared the south. It was written in the history books she poured over when she was but a child. Hundreds of years of battle and betrayal on both land and sea that continued on to that day, and quite possibly till the end of time. She blamed no one for that.

"Do you hate and fear me, _mutanyi_?"

"That is difficult to say. We've just met."

Smart answer.

Cocking her head to one side, she leaned back in her chair, one arm propped on the back. "What is it you want from me, old man"?

He reached into his grey robes. "The question is, what do you want from me?" He revealed a scroll, the same size and color as the one her father entrusted to her. And what bothered her was the seal, and how familiar it looked, gleaming red with the crest of the eight-pointed star. Koronande's emblem. Onome's spine crawled. She checked the inner pocket of her jerkin, where the scroll, her mission's main objective, was held.

Empty.

_ Bastard!_

She shot up, throwing her chair backwards, and grabbed her glaive. The thief, he stole it somehow!

"Release your weapon, girl!" he whispered, his voice harsh. "You are outnumbered. You will do well to remember that."

Onome would have easily killed him without a second thought. "Give it back, conjurer," she spat. "That does not belong to you." He had her watched all around. He had her surrounded by drunken idiots who would have loved nothing better than to beat the life out of her, and worse. She had been set up, so as to not retaliate.

"I know why you are here-"

"You know nothing, _mutanyi_."

"I know that a Harad soldier would not come to Middle Earth alone without a purpose. And you are hardly the assassin type. This scroll here is not a death sentence, but a peace offering, if you will. Now sit down and we can talk. Like civilized people."

Onome nearly had to pry her hand from the polearm. She placed her chair back upright and took her seat again. "Fine. It seems that you have left me no other choice. I will give you all the coin in my possession, in return for the scroll that you _stole_ from me." Every man had his price; she only hoped that what she had was enough. He would take it, as he would get the better and of the deal.

The old man shook his head. "Let us start again, shall we? My name is Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey."

"Onome Idrissa," she replied reluctantly. She could only guess why they called him Gandalf the Grey. The answer was glaringly obvious. "I will say it again, Gandalf the Grey. I will give you all the coin in my possession in return for the scroll."

"I do not want your gold. It would do me little good." Gandalf slid the scroll towards her. "This is not a negotiation, Onome. Tell me why you have come to Middle Earth. I may be able to help, if you allow it."

She opened her mouth to speak. Could she trust him? There was no one else to aid her, and there this wizard was, practically throwing his services at her feet.

_What choice do I have now?_

Gandalf's fingers drummed on the table, quickening as a sigh escaped him. His brow furrowed. He probably thought she was playing a game, the way she skirted around the subject. She continued. "There is something-some_one_, I should say-that has it in for you. Forces are gathering everywhere south of the Mirror of Fire. Hell, even as far as the Dune Sea and the port of Umbar. I have seen it firsthand on my journey here. The farther north I traveled, the more hate and lust for the blood of your people I saw."

She opened her mouth to speak. Could she trust him? There was no one else to aid her, and there this mutanyi, this wizard, was, practically throwing his services at her feet. Onome propped her forearms on the table, leaning in as close as she could. A wicked smile played on her lips, meant to disarm. Caught too eager to ask for help was not her way of doing things. _Play into it slowly, keep your composure_. "Alright. I have come to give you all a running start."

She could tell that something began to click in her company's head, turning the thoughts. His eyes no longer reflected the light. Each word that she spoke instilled fear. She was no longer smiling.

"And...that is why I am here. To warn you."

"And warn us you will," Gandalf grumbled. "Your task is not yet complete, Onome of Harad. There is much to be done, and many to inform."

"Do you know the king of Gondor?"

"There is no king, only a steward. And to seek him out would not be in your best interest. We go to the valley of Rivendell, where Lord Elrond resides."

Onome nodded. "Then where do we go from here?" she asked, dropping any and all desire to antagonize. She was a captain of an entire naval fleet, and fell back into the familiarity of taking orders like greeting a new day. Gandalf was her acting superior now. She knew hardly anything about him, next to nothing, yet she felt that she could trust him. What else would she have done?

"We travel by the North-South Road to the village of Bree. There is someone I must see, and there is no time to waste. We leave at daybreak."

* * *

The King's Inn was left behind in the pouring rain, as was the port it was built in. Mountains of the west towered over the land, massive sentinels touching the skies. They were the domain of earth spirits, stubborn and frightening as the rock they inhabited. Onome imagined the kinds of demons that hid in the dark crevices of those mountains. If Gandalf's road led through them, she would take her horse and find another way around, no matter how long it took. They soon passed through rolling hills and grasslands and forests tall as the clouds in the sky. So far the west resembled the land near the Rhun Sea in the east. Onome only visited Rhun once, and while the landscape and the culture enraptured her in youth, the time spent there was hell on earth.

She shook her head to erase the train of thought.

"How much farther must we go, _mutanyi_?" Onome asked during a short rest near a stream. The water was cool and clear, and the horses drank their fill. Gandalf sat in the shadow of one of the trees, smoking his pipe weed in a relaxing manor. But his closely knit eyebrows gave away his façade. He never answered.

They continued for two days, only stopping for half an hour at best. She was quickly becoming tired of her surroundings, and wished for a change of scenery. Being so far from the coast churned her insides like seasickness. "Bree is just ahead of those hills there," Gandalf called to her, as if he could sense her unease. "That is where we shall part ways."

_Thank Nosteh_. Their destination was in sight.

When they arrived, she did not know what to make of the small village of Bree. Cramped and crowded and crude, she thought as they neared the gate. But the gate was more of a fortress wall than it was a gate; large tree logs ground to points and tied together to surround the town. Onome looked at him uncertainly. She would become lost if there was no one to guide her. The west was foreign, unknown, and she had little resources to get her to Rivendell.

He must have noticed her distress. "Rivendell is but a few days journey from here. Head east through that forest and you will find a road. Follow it."

"What if I get lost? I have no map. Can your friend not wait a little longer?"

Gandalf pursed his already thin lips. "We shall see each other soon, Onome."

Her mind flashed images of her father. She looked away quickly. _So I am on my own yet again_. "Don't you die on me, _mutanyi_. I have no other friends here." Onome kicked her horse and sped off before the wizard could respond.

* * *

Okay, so the next chapter will definitely be interesting. Stay tuned, folks!

-OG


	4. As You See

Aureliaithil-Gosh, thank you for your review! And double thank you for pointing that out to me. I will be reading over it shortly and correcting my mistakes! I do much copy and pasting, so sentences might get repeated on accident.

Without further ado, let us continue!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**As You See**

Legolas had been tracking the person through the forest for some time. A woman, by height and stature, he figured. Though he could not see her face that was hidden by the hood pulled over her head when the rain began to fall. She spoke no words that he could hear, made no sign that would lead him to her purpose.

Her clothing was strange. Dressed in layers of blue and brown, with belt and sash fastened around her waist and over her shoulder. No armor, yet in one gloved hand was a polearm, the handle painted red, the blade shimmering drops of rain in the light. She traveled alone, or so he thought.

Maenor and Arveldir, the two Silvan elves under his command, went on ahead to scout the area for her companions, if she had any. His father Thranduil, king of the Woodland Realm, handpicked the two soldiers from his own personal guard. They were much older than Legolas, and both carried an air of defiance with them. Serving a captain with less experience would bother anyone, but they made an oath to the king, and they needed to follow through. The prince would have preferred the company and council of Tauriel alone but his father played favorites and kept her close at all times. Nothing to be done about that, he mused. Maenor and Arveldir were steadfast, and served the kingdom well. He could deal with them for a few days more.

The woman went around in circles, going over rock and under root, searching.

She was lost, and terribly so.

A sense of pity washed over him, but not enough to coerce him to lend assistance. This journey to Rivendell was no leisure. It was punishment. A prisoner, and a foul one at that, found a way to escape their walls. He was the appointed captain at the time and his father was furious. "You can tell our companions in Rivendell of your failures," his father had said. "And do not return to me until you have a new tactic on how to bring that foul creature back."

So there he was, stalking a woman through the forest, with the weight of failure on his shoulders.

It was not until Legolas caught sight of her by a spring one morning that he discovered her true intentions.

* * *

Onome cast her outer clothing onto the mass of stones where she sat to rest, remaining in her pants, smallclothes, and undershirt. Her glaive rested against a tree. The water was clear and cool on her skin, and the dirt and grime that built up on her journey washed away down the stream. It was the first time in quite a while that she felt clean and refreshed. _The first thing I'll do when I arrive is ask for a hot bath. They owe me that much._

After she finished washing, she dressed quickly; the autumn air chilled her skin and gave her gooseflesh. The west was too cold for her liking. _Give me sand and sea over trees any day._ Still, she could not deny the almost haunting beauty of the deep greens and browns of the woods. The scenery lacked the calm and calamity of ocean waves, yet had a strange sense of serenity of its own.

As she fastened her belt, something caused the hairs on her neck to stand up. The sounds of the forest melded together, birds and insects and the rustle of the canopy above, yet she could make out certain sounds over the noise. The faintest scuffle of dirt under foot. Slow and steady breathing. The quiet yet unmistakable sound of a bowstring pulled taut, arrow nocked and ready for its mark.

Her eyes shifted to her glaive, just barely out of reach.

"How long have you been following me?" She asked, turning slowly. An elf stood before her; she noted the small points of his ears and fair features. His hands were steady as he aimed bow and arrow at her heart, but that was not what worried her.

It was him. The one from her dream.

"You speak the Westron tongue?" he asked. She did not answer. She tried to steady her shaking hands, swallow down the bile in her mouth. The blood in her veins went ice cold as she remembered what transpired. In the dream he trapped her in a prison of branches and thorns.

In waking, he aimed to kill her.

He narrowed his eyes. "What business does your kind have in Imladris?"

_Imladris?_ She paused, looking at him quizzically. "...I have business in Rivendell. I know nothing of Im…Imladris." The word felt strange on her tongue. It must have been of the elvish language. "Am I in the wrong place?" she asked herself, turning to view their surroundings. The valley was hidden and surrounded by mountains and trees. Everything there was surrounded by mountains and trees. She had already gotten lost on her way, perhaps even more so than she thought. "Anyway," she continued, directing herself back to the elf, forcing her posture. "My business is none of yours. Unless you have come to help and not kill me where I stand."

_Of which I wouldn't believe for a second._

"Throw your weapon towards me."

She nodded. Without taking her eyes off the elf, Onome reached over and took her glaive from its resting place. She stepped toward him, her free hand held up to show that she meant not to fight. The elf tensed, his eyes burning holes into her.

"I said to throw it."

"I don't want to throw it. Might get a scratch, and I just got a new blade for it."

"You won't have much use for a new blade when you're dead, assassin."

So that was what this was about. The elf believe her to be of the assassins league. How insulting. Did she come all this way to die, then?

Onome was but a few steps away from him now. She knelt down slowly, placing her weapon right before his feet. "I do not want any trouble, elf. And I am no assassin. You must believe-"

"Stand up. Now."

"You are the first elf I have ever laid eyes on," Onome said with a ridged jaw, ignoring his command. "Does it interest you to hear it?"

"Stand."

She would enjoy taking him down.

Onome acted fast, pulling her dagger out of its sheath from the belt. One quick spin was all it took, and she closed the distance between them and severed his bowstring. The arrow flew the short distance to the ground, burrowing in the soft earth. _The elf must not have suspected that_, she mused as his expression turned from steel to unbridled rage.

She grabbed his arm and thrust the heel of her hand into his jaw. A swift kick to the back of his legs sent him slamming into the ground. In his daze Onome managed to grab her glaive and placed the blade at his pale throat in warning. "Follow me," she breathed. "And I will kill you."

* * *

She disappeared into the trees.

Legolas could not sense Maenor and Arveldir. They must have found her companions, there was no other reason for them not to have reported back. That woman, that witch! The assassin must have cast a spell on him. How else would she unarm him so easily? A mere human the likes of her could never possess the strength to subdue even the weakest of elves.

He stood and winced. She was stronger than she looked. Drawing the blades from his back, the prince scanned the forest for her trail. He was alone in hunting her down, trapped within an anger that might as well have blinded him.

_East_. He scowled, following her tracks at top speed. The assassin, with all her strength, would not escape him again.

When he found her again, she leaned herself against the wall of a cliff. She found her way to the rocky path of Imladris. Her breathing was heavy, having run such a long distance. He would make quick work of the assassin before she, or her companions, could make it to Lord Elrond's gates.

Leaping from the trees, Legolas swung at her, all grace and fury and biting white steel. She spun and blocked his attacks with ease - she knew he was coming, how could she know? - sending him back with each deflect. The woman's glaive reached far and kept him at a distance. Legolas never saw the likes of her fighting style, swift like wind and fierce as well, and she possessed the muscle and speed to swing the blasted weapon with one arm. The blade of hers was heavy against his own, and he could do little to ward her attacks.

He grappled for her polearm. He would not land a single blow unless her weapon was taken care of. She snarled through grit teeth, using all she had to push him back into the rock and smashed her forehead into his nose. Legolas soon tasted copper.

He was bleeding. It was all too familiar.

"I tried to reason with you, witch." He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. "Where are the others?" he spat, stepping back.

"What, do you have multiple death wishes? I am the only one here, and I am more than what is necessary to kill you!"

The glaive was an extension of her arm, matching her body's every move. Their dance on the cliff's path went on, and while the woman's advantage was distance, her attacks began to slow noticeably before long. That was all Legolas needed. For her to leave him an opening long enough to strike.

He did his best not to smirk, to keep focus. This would be an easy battle. The woman leapt and swung down her glaive with such force it might have split the earth. Legolas jumped back to avoid the attack. When he looked back at the woman and saw her pause, he took his chance. In a few strides Legolas closed in on her and swung his knife.

A sharp pain split his chest. He saw that she held another weapon-the small dagger again, now edged with blood. A cut went across his chest and slashed the quiver's harness from him.

Legolas panicked. "_Stop her!_" he shouted in elvish, forgetting that his companions were not there to aid him. A single arrow flew so close to the woman it cut her cheek. She halted, eyes quickly shifting to view her surroundings, not caring to wipe the blood that trickled down to her chin.

So his companions caught up to him, after all. He was not alone in this fight any longer.

"You were worried that I had company?" she asked, breathless. "It seems you came prepared. Tell me, do you have a whole army hiding out there? To defend you from flesh wounds?" She was lax now, wiping the blood from her dagger onto her sleeve and placing it back in its sheath.

"You could have killed me," he retorted in disbelief. A prick of shame made him wince. "A little deeper and you would have carved out my heart."

"Oh please! Spare me the dramatics, elf," she scoffed. "I hardly drew blood from your precious body."

His lip curled into a snarl. But the pain would subside and the wound would heal itself in time. What forced him to call for aid in the first place? Tauriel might have laughed herself to tears if she were there with him. But he did not need to justify his actions to filth. "_Maenor! Arveldir!_" Legolas called without breaking his gaze from the assassin. When his companions appeared at his side he could sense the woman's façade failing. "F_lank her. I shall follow at the rear so that she does not try to escape._"

She narrowed her eyes. "That will get aggravating fast. Are you still set on killing me, elf? I did not think you needed this much help with one person." They searched her, stole her glaive and dagger away and grabbed her arms in a vicious manner. Maenor reached into her tunic and discovered a folded bit of parchment, to which she struggled in their grasp and tried desperately to reclaim. "Do not open it, stop!"

"What is this, woman?" Legolas asked. He took the parchment from Maenor and examined the seal. Eight-pointed star...? That was not the emblem of a Harad assassin.

"You are no assassin," Legolas muttered, eyes fixed on the seal.

"As you see."

"What?"

"You elves are truly clever folk. I have been sent here," she began. "By the wizard. You might know him by the name of Gandalf the Grey."

Legolas dropped his stance. A look of confusion clouded his fair face. "Gandalf?" he asked. "You know Gandalf the Grey?"

"I do," she answered. "Under dire circumstances when I would rather be elsewhere. But yes. He asked me to travel to Rivendell, to seek out the Lord Elrond and bring news of the southern lands."

His posture softened, his shoulders relaxed. Now her true intentions were known. "Then we are here for the same purpose, for I have come bearing news for Lord Elrond as well."

"Is it elvish custom to assault your comrades?"

"I apologize. I was misled by your appearance. I believed you to be an assassin of the south." He nodded at the others, signalling then to release her.

"_I do not trust her, captain_," Arveldir said. Legolas eyed him, and his underlings silently complied, albeit reluctantly. The woman lunged forward and snatched the parchment from his hands.

"You only did what anyone else would have done," she said, placing the parchment back into her tunic. She noticed that her scarf had been torn in the skirmish and ripped it from around her neck. Legolas found himself staring. She raised an eyebrow at him yet he did not look away; such dark skin and strange clothing would acquire anyone's attention. When his eyes trailed down to her bare neck, where broad black lines were etched across her collarbone, he averted his gaze and swallowed. "Forgive me," he said. He placed his free hand over his heart and inclined his head toward her. "I am Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm."

"Onome Idrissa. Of Koronande," she answered sourly.

"You shall come with us willingly. And we shall meet Lord Elrond together."

"Wonderful," she sighed with relief, though he noted the underlying sarcasm. "Dying this soon in the game would be shameful. I would love an escort."

* * *

Onome followed the three elves down the path of stone to the white steps of Rivendell. Sunlight set the valley ablaze as the change of Autumn marked its passing. Waterfalls splashed and sparkled crystal blue and a faraway song echoed in the air. Set in the center of the valley was the house of Elrond, immense in size and beautiful. Rivendell sat high above the gorge, thick with trees. Delicate, lacy waterfalls made their way down to the rushing river below.

_Truly a sigh to behold. This place is more grand than the temples_. The group was soon met by another elf who carried no weapon of his own. Legolas spoke to him in elvish, and each greeted the other with a hand on their chest and a bow of their heads. He shot her a glance as he spoke. _The scum is speaking ill of me when it was he who attacked me first_. In the end it mattered little. Besides, she dealt Legolas some damage. It was enough for her to live on for a good while.

She did not trust him. Dreams never lied. The elf prince _would_ attempt to end her life one day.

She scoffed at their exclusive conversation. "Are we done here?" They all turned their heads, looking rather insulted. The elf before them was of dark hair and eyes, and smiled kindly, setting him worlds away from his ash-blond counterparts. "Onome of Harad. I am Lindir. Lord Elrond wishes to greet you in person."

Her eyes grew wide at the mention of her name. _How did he…?_ So quickly she forgot the stories of the magic of Elves. Spell casters, great warriors in battle, and lore masters who knew of every event in history. There were mind readers, even those blessed with the gift of foresight. Perhaps it was foolish to test them in their own realm, though the one she faced showed no sign of magical properties.

"Where I hail from, it is rude to speak in a tongue that the guest cannot understand," she declared, attempting to look composed, though it was the opposite of how she felt. So far, elven customs were convoluted as the race itself.

Onome allowed the elf Lindir to guide her down the path to the carved stone bridge that crossed the river. Legolas and the rest of the guard were not far behind; she felt his stare the whole way, but it was not enough to keep her from enjoying the sights and scents and sounds of this foreign place.

"You've arrived later than I anticipated."

Onome turned her head, not surprised at all to be in the company of yet another elf. He stood tall and noble, garbed in silk and velvet robes the color of autumn. A shining silver circlet crowned his dark hair and serious brow, as if the heavens adorned him with the very stars above. "Are you Elrond?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I am." He descended the steps, now face to face with the southern warrior. "Most outsiders are not so casual with their speech as you."

"Forgive me, Lord Elrond. I meant no offense." A king amongst his own kind, and wise beyond measure, Gandalf told her. She saw it to be true.

The lord of Rivendell dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "You are far from home, and our customs are foreign to you." She said nothing, but not out of rudeness. Onome had little idea of what to say in fear of overstaying her welcome. If attempting to kill one of his kind had not insulted his lordship already. Even if she was not the first to draw her weapon. "_Legolas Thranduillion. 'Quel amrun._"

Onome glanced behind her. Legolas placed a hand over his heart and inclined his head, returning the greeting. "_Nae saian luume'._"

_Damned elves_, Onome glowered. _Speak so we can all understand_.

Elrond read her thoughtfully, the scrutiny not lost on the Harad woman. "Welcome, Onome, to Rivendell. May you find some comfort here, and the answers you seek." She bowed her head in gratitude, keeping her eyes on the stone beneath her in respect to her host. Welcome, Elrond said. She almost laughed at the idea. Legolas already showed her the hospitality of the elves. _There is no welcome for my kind here._

* * *

Hopefully you all like this chapter. I worked real hard on it! Talk to you soon!

-OG


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